The Run and Go
by Order of Arcadia
Summary: "I can't take them on my own, my own/Oh, I'm not the one you know, you know/I have killed a man and all I know/Is I am on the run and go." Bucky Barnes is on the run. Steve Rogers is determined to find him, and the Avengers are here to assist. No slash, directly after CA:TWS. The Remembered AU. NOW COMPLETE!
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

The music was familiar. Steve knew he recognized it—where from, he wasn't sure.

When had he heard it? Where was he? What _century_ was it again?

His eyes fluttered open, and he blinked lazily in the bright mid-afternoon light. Hospital monitors quietly stood guard by his bed.

He raised his head slightly to look around. What was he wearing? A gown? An IV tube trailed off his bed from where it was stuck in his arm.

It was then he spotted the smartphone propped up on the side table across the room.

Trouble Man. Marvin Gaye. Twenty-first century.

Right.

His face felt slightly stiff from healing wounds; stitches trailed down from the corner of his lips, tugging when he moved his jaw. But warm golden sunlight poured through the window and gently pricked his skin, welcoming him back to consciousness.

Steve turned his head to the right. Sam was asleep, upright, in the bedside chair. A small smear of blood from a cut above his temple was still drying.

Steve felt a smile growing on his face. Rolling his head back up to gaze comfortably at the ceiling, he murmured, "On your left."

His voice sounded weak and far away, but Sam, ever the soldier, was awake in a heartbeat. For a moment stared at Steve, and then a soft huff of a laugh turned into a gentle smirk on his face.

Steve let his heavy eyelids drift shut again.

It was good to have company.

* * *

It was completely silent.

He sat in a metal chair, long strands of dark, matted hair falling around his face. His breathing and the whir from inside his arm were the only sounds in the dark room.

He was alone. No one had come. No one had been there for hours.

They wouldn't come. They weren't coming. It was only him.

He looked up, eyes dark and flashing.

He was alone.

 _tbc..._

* * *

 _I can't take them on my own  
_ _My own  
_ _Oh, I'm not the one you know  
_ _You know  
_ _I have killed a man and all I know  
_ _Is I am on **T** **he Run and Go**..._


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

One has a lot of time to think when they're bedridden in the hospital. A _lot_ of time. Steve's fists had taken as much of a beating as the rest of him, but phalanges heal much faster than bullet wounds, and thanks to the serum he had the finger splints off within days.

Sam had brought his sketchbook from the apartment—as well as graciously arranged for Steve's living room wall to be repaired and carpet cleaned (boy, had _that_ been a nightmare to explain)—so at least Steve had something to do besides eat bad food and stare at the walls.

But his mind kept wandering, and it was always back to the same old thing...or, rather, the same person.

The white vertical blinds were pulled back at his request so that he could look out over D.C. and the Potomac. The early morning sky was speckled with clouds—an entirely too beautiful day to be cooped up inside like this—when he found himself murmuring.

"He's still out there. Alone. He must be so confused..."

Sam Wilson set down the golf magazine he'd been browsing and looked over, his expression sympathetic.

Steve felt his jaw go tight. "How soon can I get out of here?" he asked.

The other man shook his head. "You're not moving a muscle until the doc says so," he said, so serious that he had to be teasing. "Your healing's faster, not instant. It's still gonna take time."

Steve defiantly threw out his jaw and felt the stitches complain.

Sam picked up the magazine again and didn't take it back.

Steve sighed. "By the time I get out of here, he might have wandered to the end of the earth." He stared out over the river, his voice somber. "Or they might have taken him back."

Sam exhaled through his nose, turned the page, and shrugged. "I dunno, man. Maybe you can ask the super-spy what she knows."

At that, Steve sat up straighter. "Nat's coming?"

" _If_ she comes," Sam corrected himself. "The woman's busy. Last I heard, she was at a congressional hearing."

Steve stared out the window again, back to pou— _brooding_. He wasn't pouting.

Sam leaned over the bed, picked up Steve's sketchbook from where he'd left it at the foot of the mattress, and dropped it into Steve's lap. "Here," he said. "Draw."

Steve picked up the book and pencil, a smile tugging at his face. "You know it's not the best environment for inspiration."

"Nothing but complainin'," retorted Sam. He stood up and grabbed the bed rail, and his face and voice changed. "Seriously, though, rest. You can't go searching for him after this if you're gonna keel over."

Steve didn't smile, but he didn't offer the older man any sass either. He knew that Sam was right.

Sam set aside the magazine and headed for the door. "Want me to get you a snack or something?" he asked over his shoulder.

Steve felt a smile tug at his face. "There's nothing good to eat in a hospital."

"Fair point." Sam glanced through the door's little window at the guards outside. Then he leaned forward and harshly whispered, "Want me to head across the street and smuggle in some chalupas?"

A huffing laugh burst out of Steve, and he winced. His stomach wounds screamed in pain.

Sam frowned. He must have caught that.

Steve took short, tiny breaths, trying not to look too helpless. "Juice, I guess," he gasped.

"With a bendy straw?" asked Sam.

Steve shot him a glare that he hoped carried the message of 'once I get out of this bed I will punch you'.

Sam threw his hands up in surrender. "All right, all right, I'm going!" he said, and ducked through the door.

Steve sighed again and picked up the sketchbook. He appreciated Sam's efforts to cheer him up—and they worked, really, somewhat—but he couldn't be consoled so easily after everything that had happened.

He wanted to sketch other things, but as his pencil scratched out faint lines on the whiteness, it turned to a portrait anyway.

It was a face he knew like his own name—broad shoulders, sharp jawline, the flash in his eyes—but try as he might, he could never get it just right, and the eraser was wearing out faster than he was making progress.

He heard the door latch clack but didn't look up from sketching.

"If you got the bendy straw, I'll kill you after I get out," he told Sam.

"Excuse me?" asked Natasha.

Steve almost jumped out of his bed at the sound of the female voice. "Romanoff!" he said, letting the book fall into his lap.

Nat raised an eyebrow, a small upward quirk in her lips. "Rogers." She gripped the bed rail as she moved to the bedside chair. "I'm surprised to still see you in this thing."

"Don't," Steve answered, comically serious as she sat down. "Sam's been ribbing me all day."

She gave him a thin smile, and her eyes glanced momentarily over the portrait in his lap.

Steve belatedly moved to hide it out of habit. He wasn't really ashamed. "What do you know about him?" he asked lowly.

Natasha shook her head. "There's no way I'd give you that information right now."

"Why not?" He could feel his blood heating up. "'Ears everywhere'? Because it's not safe here either?"

Natasha leaned forward over his bed, deathly quiet, and whispered right to his face, "Because the minute I do is the minute you jump out of this bed."

That, he had to agree, was true. He averted his eyes, jaw set.

Natasha sat back down and tugged her chair an inch or so closer to the bed. "You're still determined to find him?" she asked, her voice lighter.

"I owe it to him," was all he said.

She nodded. "I understand that."

Steve looked up. She was gazing out the window, her expression distant. Steve knew she'd mentioned owing Barton a debt...maybe she did understand.

Nat sighed and leaned back, her arms crossed. "I can promise to keep feelers out on my web, on my informants..." She trailed off and added with a smirk, "Those who will still work with me, anyway, after I exposed two high-name spy organizations."

Steve gave her a small smile. It took some effort.

Nat gave a peering look, her green eyes searching him. "What are you going to do once you find him?"

Steve exhaled heavily and fingered the corner of the portrait in his hand. Bucky's eyes in graphite smiled back at him. "I...don't know," he finally confessed. "Haven't really thought ahead that far."

"You might want to." Her words were harsh, but the tone was kind. "He's a shadow of who he was, Steve. You won't be any use to him if you can't deal with that."

Steve nodded and tucked one lip under the other grimly.

A few quick knocks rang out on the door.

Steve lifted his head. "Sam?" he called.

Sam entered, examining a small box in his hand. "I hope you like grape," he said, "'cause that's all they—" He caught sight of Nat and startled.

"Hey, Wilson," she said amiably.

Sam waved dramatically at the hall and cried, "I step out for five minutes—!"

"You got a bendy straw," Steve groused, feigning annoyance.

Sam held up both hands—including the one holding the box and straw—in surrender. "They wouldn't give me another one."

Steve shot Nat a 'you see what I have to deal with?' face.

She shot him a smile back.

And for a moment, Steve felt he was delirious enough to believe it was real.

 _tbc..._

* * *

 **A/N: *pokes my head out of the abyss of obscurity* Is anyone still writing post-CA:TWS Bucky recovery fics? No? Cool.**

 **Hey, all! So it seems like almost as long as I've been on Fanfiction, I've had friends on this site who were curious how Bucky came to the decision to stay with Steve in my Remembered AU. Unfortunately for me, the answer turns out to be fifteen long pages of notes. Lucky for you, that means a multi-chapter fanfic. So I apologize for the wait, but I'm excited to bring this story to you guys. You'll laugh, you'll cry. It'll be fun.**

 **The title and lyrics in this fic are from the Twenty One Pilots song of the same name, which I challenge you to ever hear without thinking of Steve and Bucky ever again. Rating is for safety and occasional language. That's it. I hope you enjoyed the double-update of this prologue and the first chapter to kick this thing off.**

 **Reviews are free music.**


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N: Should have mentioned it earlier, but the first scene in the prologue is from a scene in the movie, and so is the first scene in this chapter. As always, I don't own it, but I do own the blu-ray.**

* * *

 **Chapter Two**

The cemetery was quiet, green, and peaceful. Steve Rogers shook the hand of Nicholas J. Fury over the empty grave of...Nicholas J. Fury. He thought it ironic that so many people he knew—including himself—tended to come back from the dead.

"If anyone asks for me, tell them they can find me right here," Fury said amiably, nodding towards the flower-decked grave.

"You should be honored," teased a new voice as Fury left. "That's as close as he gets to saying 'thank you'."

Steve turned to Natasha with a smile. "Not going with him?" he asked. They stopped in the shade of the green cemetery tree to talk.

" _No_ ," she said, shaking her head and sounding very amused. Steve couldn't blame her. Fury was headed to Europe to take down the last of HYDRA. Easy for a dead man to do; not as easy for an outed spy.

"Not staying here," he added. It wasn't really a question.

"Nah," she answered, hardly a whisper. "I blew all my covers; I've got to go figure out a new one."

"That might take a while." A while of not seeing her.

"I'm counting on it." Her smile was kind.

Steve figured they could compromise on that.

"That thing you asked for..." Natasha handed him a folder she'd carried in under her arm. "I called in a few favors from Kiev." Cyrillic letters emblazoned the manilla cover, and the number '17' was stamped on in blue.

Steve felt his stomach turn to ice at the sight. This would be a tough read.

"Will you do _me_ a favor?" Nat asked softly. "Call that nurse?"

Steve couldn't help but smirk at the thought of his 'neighbor'. "She's not a nurse."

"And you're not a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent," she answered.

She had him there. He nodded. "What was her name again?" he asked lightly. He remembered. Super-soldier perfect recollection and all that. But he wanted to hear it from her.

"Sharon." Natasha's smile was the most gentle he'd ever seen from her. "She's nice."

They'd been quiet for a few moments, with nothing else to say, when Natasha stepped forward and put her arm gently around his neck.

Steve leaned down. She pressed a kiss to his cheek.

He looked at her with a question in his eyes, but found no answer. He supposed he should get used to that.

As she walked away over the grass, she added, "Be careful, Steve." She turned and spoke over her shoulder. "You might not want to pull on that thread."

Steve knew she was right. It could be dangerous. Downright suicidal. He'd seen what his friend...the Winter Soldier...was capable of.

But he couldn't set it out of his mind now.

As she left, he opened the folder. Inside was a large blue biopsy photograph of Bucky's face, ringed by ice, behind a glass panel. At the lower corner of that, a tiny black-and-white photo hung on by a paper clip, showing the same man bright-eyed and in uniform right before the war.

Steve heard Sam's footsteps in the grass behind him.

"You're going after him," said Sam. It wasn't really a question.

"You don't have to come with me," answered Steve, still reading the contents of the folder.

"I know." There was a pause. Then Sam asked, "When do we start?"

* * *

The familiar hustle and noise of Manhattan was far dulled on the high floor in Avengers Tower. Tony Stark had arranged for Happy to pick up Steve and Sam the moment they arrived at the airport. Steve was just grateful not to lose any time.

"Okay, so, debrief me again," quipped Tony, leaning against the workbench in his lab and tapping his chin with a wrench. "I do better in person than with phone calls."

Steve was ready to oblige. "I'm looking for Bucky," he began, standing, while Sam sat nearby on Tony's chair. "They've turned him into a—"

"Brainwashed assassin, got that," Tony interrupted. "Speaking of which, about those S.H.I.E.L.D. files. JARVIS skimmed 'em for me and found 'conclusive evidence' that our friendly neighborhood pseudo-Nazis in Europe could have Reindeer Games' scepter."

"Could have what now?" Sam asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"Loki's scepter," Steve answered quickly.

"Yep. Messed with our minds a little last time, and we were just standing in the same room." Tony shrugged. "Obviously, we don't need to talk about that now, but remind me. Because—problem."

Steve felt his teeth grit. He really shouldn't have been so surprised that the organization that brainwashed Bucky would want a brainwashing scepter. This made things a _lot_ more complicated.

"Actually, let's talk about that now," he decided, addressing Tony. "What do you think?"

Tony's eyebrows shot into the sky for a moment. "Well, if you're so eager to know." He set the wrench down and leveraged himself away from the workbench, stuffing his hands in his jean pockets to pace the lab. "Feathers says he's got some connections who can feed us inside information. He's still a little bitter about the whole mind control thing and doesn't want it happening again.

"The whole thing will probably come to a fight. Think we should do this together, as a team? Make a statement? No fair withholding unwieldy artifacts from Asgardian gods!"

Steve couldn't help but crack a smile. "I dunno. With all due respect, I think I'll have my hands full. Can you handle it without me?"

"What, without our fearless leader?" Tony sounded teasing, but he almost looked...hurt? "Truth, justice, and the American way? Nothing?"

Steve sighed. "You're right, this is big. If it comes down to it, I'll try to be there. But my friend needs help. They messed with his mind. Helping him is just as important."

Tony's lip quirked. "He sure seemed cognizant enough to put a few bullet holes into you, Cap," he shrugged.

"That's not sanity, and you know it," Steve said tightly.

Tony stuck his tongue into the pocket of his cheek and was quiet for a while. "You're right."

There was a moment's silence, and naturally, Tony broke it.

"Well, I'll bite," he said easily. "What do you need?"

Steve resisted exhaling in relief. "I need a second pair of eyes. Or a dozen of them. I can't be everywhere at once, and I need all the help I can get."

Bruce Banner, who'd been tinkering with something sciency in another part of the lab, looked up and quietly listened in on the conversation.

"Hm." Tony waved his arm, pulling up some holograms in the air, and began to poke around in them. "You're sure we'll be able to track him? Seems he was able to keep on the down-low for seventy years."

"That's before we knew who we were looking for," Steve argued back. "And HYDRA doesn't have the structure to keep him a secret now. He's on his own. The sooner we find him, the less chance he has to go far."

"Point." Tony flicked the holograms away and put on the voice of a ringleader. "Well, let's review the evidence, gentlemen, shall we? J, take a look around social media and news sites around D.C."

"Already done," the AI answered smoothly, flicking more images and text into the air over the holograms. "There's nothing conclusive to be linked to James Barnes, but I've encountered multiple reports of HYDRA outposts around the capital mysteriously looted and burned to the ground within the last two weeks."

Sam stood up and stepped closer to the holograms. "He's fighting back?" he asked the AI. Steve was impressed that Sam was so calm about the sentient computer. His hurried explanation in the ride here from the airport must have worked.

JARVIS hesitated. "For a recent victim of HYDRA's crimes, revenge isn't far fetched. The motive is there, but it isn't certain. Nor is there a clear evidence trail to suggest his location."

"So he's just slippery," Tony concluded. "Lying low."

"I would too after setting my old bosses on fire," muttered Sam.

"Are there any kills involved?" Steve asked the ceiling. He was almost afraid of the answer.

"One." The single word hung in the lab's air for a moment. Then JARVIS brought up the news article, complete with pictures. "It appears to be an official of high standing within their internal ranks."

"Personal vendetta?" asked Sam, peering closer at the picture of a blood-stained uniform.

"No way of knowing," answered JARVIS.

"J, what's the radius of the lootings?" asked Tony, grabbing a packet of sunflower seeds from who knows where amidst his machinery and stuffing a few in his mouth.

JARVIS displayed a satellite view of D.C., peppered it with red dots, and projected a transparent blue circle that encompassed them all. "Every single outpost is within five miles of the capital. Seven recorded incidences in Maryland and three in Virginia, not counting locations within the district itself."

"So he hasn't gone far." Tony sealed the bag again and tossed it onto his desk.

"That's good," Steve breathed. He tried to ignore Sam's concerned look.

"Thanks, J. Keep the face recognition running on socials and news sites in the background, and look out for anything else that sounds suspicious. That's about all I can do," said Tony, turning to Steve as JARVIS shut down the holograms. "Bit too far north for anything more involved."

"You're sure it's a good idea to go after him?" asked Bruce.

All three of the other men turned to look at where the quiet man was fiddling with his round glasses.

"He's my friend," Steve answered automatically. "I _have_ to try."

Bruce glanced momentarily where the holograms had been. "If this is him, then he still seems violent." His gaze met Steve's, and the unsaid question hung in the air.

Steve felt his face fall.

"If we can find him, we can help take the fight out of him," Sam said firmly. He turned to Steve. "You've been working on a plan, right?" he asked.

Steve nodded, silently thanking God for Sam. "I have."

"If that plan involves throwing out 40's colloquialisms to jog his mind and letting yourself get beaten to a pulp, I can't back it," Tony said, biting into a sunflower seed and spitting the shell two yards into a trash can.

Bruce gave Tony a small smile. Steve himself couldn't help but be reminded of a story he'd heard from Ms. Potts. _Proof that Tony Stark has a heart..._

Steve quirked a smile. "How did you hear about the fight on the Helicarrier?"

"Was that just a joke?" muttered Sam.

Tony stared at him blankly for a second, still chewing. Even Bruce looked surprised.

"Wait, you _tried_ that?" Tony asked.

Steve shrugged. "It worked."

Silence reigned for a moment.

Bruce began to nod. "You're crazy," he said, a smile tugging on his face.

Tony chuckled.

Sam grinned and crossed his arms. "No lie there."

Steve resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Anyway, the plan's a bit more detailed than that. All I'm trying to say is..." He let his voice fall back into seriousness. "Bucky has been marching to someone else's drum for seventy years." That was _insane_ to think about...it felt like he'd only lost him a year ago. Steve felt his jaw set. "I don't want to be one more person giving him orders. I want to help. _Really_ help."

Bruce gave a small nod, and the glint in Sam's eye spoke approval.

"Well, I'm a sucker for impassioned speeches, so I'll buy," said Tony, holding out his hand. "Not much I can do in D.C. from here, but if you ever need my expertise, ring me."

"Thanks, Tony." Steve shook his hand firmly. "I promise, I'll do what I can on the hunt for the scepter in the meantime."

"I take it that doesn't take priority, though." Tony raised an eyebrow.

Steve shot him the kindest icy glare he could. "No."

Tony shrugged and took his hand back. "Fair enough. Let's split our resources, cover both areas. If we ever need the Avengers out en masse, we'll call you."

"That's fair," Steve answered. It really was.

Bruce offered his hand too. "Best of luck."

"Thanks." Steve shook it, and so did Sam. "We're gonna need it."

* * *

Steve was on the phone with another potential help in his search. It might have been a spy's way to keep things as quiet as possible, but it wasn't Steve's way. He could use everyone he could get.

He could hear her rueful smile over the phone. "I'll do everything I can, but I can't promise much," she said with a sigh. "I've taken up an honest job with the CIA."

Steve let himself smirk. "Can't be that much more honest."

Her laugh was low and musical, even over the phone.

She paused, and her tone was different when she spoke again. "You said you're also running a search for the Avengers."

"Yeah."

"That's a lot."

"It is." He knew that pretty well.

Sharon was quiet. "You have to pick your battles, Steve."

"I do. Thank you." He felt the spark come back into his eyes. "And he's the first one."

 _tbc..._

* * *

 **A/N: Hahaha I'm actually really proud of this.**

 **Reviews are sunflower seeds.**


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N: Let's play "How many emotional conversations can I write before Bucky and Steve actually reunite?"**

 **The answer is a lot. A whole lot.**

 **Warning for, ah...Captain-America-level violence?**

* * *

 **Chapter Three**

He knew the locations by some shredded memory, or from protocols beaten into him over years that he'd forgotten. Most of the secret rooms and concrete bunkers were in a state of complete disarray, unusable weapons scattered among the dirt, files, and machinery.

Others were staffed by a few of Them, mostly in a panic and unable to control him. They had taught him to attack quietly and unseen; he did, and that was their disadvantage.

He burned down those bases with a smoking pile of folders after he'd scavenged what appeared to be useful. Or if he found explosives, he'd set those instead.

Most of the time, They would run, whether they took a beating first or not. But every now and then, when he stared into the face of one of Them—the eyes dilated in some emotion that he knew, like an itch at the back of his mind—he wouldn't shoot in the head. He'd leave, or let Them run, or aim for the shoulder or the hip or somewhere else it would slow Them down and make it impossible to fight back, but They'd live.

There was one problem with not returning to submission. Slipping out of the maintenance cycle began to take its toll. His arm continued to jam internally; not enough to impede movement, but enough to make it imprecise. His head felt heavy, his senses slower, his body weak and reluctant.

Days and nights blended into one another as he stayed on the move. Shutting down, however temporarily, was not an option.

It was unfortunate. He was running out of time.

The last mission had been too close. That base was staffed, and with something resembling a chain of command. Though he took them by surprise, he was outnumbered, and They managed to organize Themselves, mob him, and almost beat him senseless.

One who seemed to be in charge spat some Russian commands into his face, but a kick to his throat shut him up.

Only when he held a bloodied knife in his metal hand and the rest of Them turned to flee did he think to stop.

That was the first time he'd killed.

His chest felt heavy, black, and tired as he stumbled away, aching and bleeding, from the compound that now belched smoke and fire. But a little bit of anger still burned inside of him, like the sparks soaring in those sooty clouds.

After that mission, his body shut down without his permission for the first time. The visions he saw in paralysis made him regain consciousness with a start, and he found himself on his back in an alleyway in the pitch-black night, shaking and in pain.

He lay there, too terrified to stay and too terrified to move, until dawn.

When he caught sight of himself in a puddle on the street, dark marks under his eyes mimicked his old camouflage.

He piled his stolen files in the very upper corner of a never-full parking garage adjacent to the city. The pockets of the clothes he stole were stuffed with rips and tatters of papers on which he'd written everything he could; whatever he could remember. When he ran out of paper, he'd write on the backs of the files.

There with the dirt, the spiders, the concrete, and the birds, he'd made his own little nest of memories. It's there he sat down in the pale, colorless morning light to nurse his wounds.

The data he had spoke of him, and also of the man with the face he knew.

He'd read it as soon as the sun reappeared.

* * *

Steve was disappointed to learn that Clint was unavailable—"on call somewhere in New York"—but he couldn't blame him for prioritizing. After what Loki had done to him, any lingering anger made perfect sense. He left a package at the Tower for him and made Tony promise to deliver it. JARVIS had promised to make sure Tony kept the promise.

Probably somewhere in the airspace over Jersey, Steve turned to Sam, who'd taken the aisle seat for this flight back on a civilian airbus.

"So..." He tried not to smirk too much. "Crazy, am I?"

Sam chuckled and immediately played along. "Hey, his words, man, not mine."

"You encouraged him." He nudged Sam's shoulder with a trouble-making grin.

Sam cackled and pushed Steve back, but he could hardly budge him.

Steve let himself laugh a little and then sighed.

Sam watched his expression carefully. He seemed to be thinking about the Potomac as much as Steve was.

"You risked your life to get through to him," Sam said gently, if still teasing. "If it were anyone else, and if it hadn't a' worked..."

"We don't know that it did." Steve tried to keep his voice steady, but it still stung a little. "I think I might have jogged some memory in him, but..."

Sam chuckled softly, shook his head, and leaned into the backrest. "Man, the debris in the river was enough to hold up emergency responders for an hour. They found you on the riverbank. Only a track of boots coming out of the water—none going to it. Couldn't have been anyone else."

Steve didn't answer. He could only hope Sam was right.

Sam had averted his eyes. "You got through." He turned back to Steve. "I'd have called it stupid otherwise."

Steve let himself crack a smile. "What _do_ you call it?"

Sam's grin displayed the gap in his teeth. "Besides crazy?" His voice took on a sober tone. "Brave. And not something he'll easily forget." He turned and watched the clouds coasting underneath the plane before he added quietly, "Look, I get it. I would have done the same thing you're doing. At least you _get_ that chance."

A photograph of Sam and another smiling man in the Falcon test suits sprang into Steve's mind.

He must have been staring sadly at Sam for a while, because the other man looked up, immediately smiled, nudged Steve's arm, and whispered, "Hey. It's okay."

Steve tried to smile back. It turned out shaky, and he looked away.

They sat in silence for a little while as Steve collected his thoughts. "They changed him," he finally said, staring at his hands clasped on his knees.

Sam nodded.

"I can't know for sure that he's sane now." Steve went on. Melancholy coiled up into heat in his stomach. "If he's gonna hurt more people, I'm the only one who has a chance of stopping him. But if he just needs help..." His voice fell. "I might be the only one who's willing to give him that chance."

"You, me, and a handful of super-people," Sam corrected him. "Don't discount your friends."

At that, Steve had to smile. "You're right."

Sam sighed, stretched his legs as far as they would go, and rubbed his thighs. Being seated for an hour was apparently starting to take its toll. "I'll warn you, though, if he does have a chance—with where he is now, it'll be a long time before things are anything like normal, and it'll be a lot of hard work."

Steve felt his jaw set. "I'm willing to do the work." Bucky had been there for him when no one else would; now he'd return the favor.

Sam chuckled. "And that's why you're the Captain."

* * *

He picked up the photograph from the file, and instantly flashes of memories began to pound his brain and make his head ache. He looked like that—same hair, same eyes—but he was smaller, he was all bloodied, he stood in different buildings, he wore different clothes—no, no, what? Where were all of these things coming from?

His flesh hand was shaking, but the metal one stayed still. It always did.

Somehow he'd known it was wrong, seeing that face scarred and bleeding and full of bruises. Somehow he knew it was wrong, and _get him out of here they've beaten him up again_ but _no, no, you did that—no—no no wrong wrong wrong NO NO NO_

He'd let him fall into the water, too bewildered to move, but when the flying machine got closer to the water he'd jumped down, grabbed the back of that uniform, and pulled him to shore.

 _Why? Why did you do that?_

Breathing heavy and trembling, he let the small slip of paper fall from his hand onto the concrete floor.

 _Because it was wrong to leave him. It was wrong to hurt him. It wasn't right. It isn't. It isn't..._

He ducked his head and raked his dark hair with both hands. The metal fingertips scraping across his skull were cold.

 _And I knew him...I_ knew _him._

He sat there alone with the concrete and dirt, his clarity, and the ache in his chest.

 _I couldn't let him die._

 _tbc..._

* * *

 **A/N: Even recently-brainwashed Bucky still loves Steve.**

 **Reviews are birds.**


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

He knew this was a risk. It was probably the biggest risk he'd taken since waking up. He'd tried to minimize the danger by stealing new, fresh clothes, and approaching at the fall of evening when few people would be there.

But being inside, around strangers, being seen...any one person could be one of Them in disguise, or alert one of Them, and he would be none the wiser. And yet, it was his best lead. He had to take that chance.

He reached over the reception desk to pick up the catalogue book. It was alphabetical, as most things were...in English.

"Can...can I help you?" the girl there asked. She had the look in her eyes that people usually did when he held a gun.

It took him a while to find his voice. "No." It came out gruffer than he meant it.

He found the entry easily enough. _Carter, Margaret; "Peggy". Room 201._

The girl continued to watch him. _One of Them one of Them one of Them_ thumped in his ears as he began to panic.

 _No, no, civilian,_ he tried to assure himself. _Focus. Focus._

 _Could still alert Them._

Heart pounding, he set the book down, shoved the tell-tale metal hand in his jacket pocket, and made for the correct room. She watched him the whole way there, and when her eyes landed on his left side, she hurried away to a back room.

 _Compromised._ No time now.

He pressed on. He'd come too far to lose this window.

The room was dark when he stepped inside. A quick scan of his surroundings revealed an occupied bed to one side, a table beside it, a chair beside that, some breakables scattered about, and a radiator and windows on the far wall, moonlight sifting through the blinds.

The woman in the bed stirred. "Who's there?" she called out weakly. "Matthew, is that you?"

He stepped forward until he felt the glint of moonlight in his eye, and he knew she could see him.

Her thin eyebrows had been furrowed, but they rose as high as they could go. Her eyes went wide in her wrinkled, sunken face, and her lips quivered. "J-James!"

Her eyes darted all over his face, and her chest began to heave in some emotion he didn't know. "I-it's not possible. You fell! Steve was heartbroken..."

He felt his eyebrows crease. He'd read in the files that Margaret was suffering from dementia—a condition of the brain—but she seemed to know some of his history. At least, the history of this...James.

In this case, her condition would be to his advantage. She'd forget he ever was here.

He tried his voice again. It rasped still, but lesser this time. "Tell me about him."

The thin white eyebrows went up.

* * *

Steve considered letting the call go to voicemail when an unfamiliar number appeared on his phone's screen. He second-guessed himself when he considered how many people knew his number, and how many of those people were professional spies.

Good thing he picked up, too. It was Natasha.

"I thought you couldn't be affiliated with us," Steve ribbed her as he poked at his dinner that Sam had graciously made. They were holed up in Steve's old apartment for the time being.

"Officially, I'm not," answered Natasha. Her voice sounded tinny over speakerphone. "And don't try calling this number back. But, unofficially, you might want to check the police doppler."

Sam, who'd already started washing his own dishes, frowned, dried his hands, and started pressing buttons on the radio they had for this exact purpose.

They listened to the girl's report for a while, and Steve got a few bites down until he heard the the name of the nursing home and the words "man with a metal arm". He sprang up in alarm.

"What is it?" asked Sam, dropping everything.

"Peggy's there," Steve cried, breathless, as he took off for the front door. He grabbed his jacket off the coat-rack and shield from beside the wall on the way out.

Sam was right behind him, scooping up a jacket in one hand and a pistol in the other. "Oh, tell me he's not murdering little old ladies now!"

* * *

He was seated by the bed at her request—he reasoned that it was to conserve energy—holding the rail on her bed with his flesh hand. The chill of the metal was warming under his palm.

It had been about five minutes. She'd asked him to turn on the bedside lamp so that she could see, and didn't object when he closed the window blinds. It was almost a relief to be told to do something.

His own relief made him feel sick to his stomach.

But it was such a strange person from whom to take orders. She had no physical advantage over him. He could kill her easily. Possibly the simplest kill he'd ever have to carry out—her body was decaying enough to do half the job for him.

But his gut felt sour whenever the thought popped into his mind, and he knew it was _wrong_. That wasn't what he had come for.

So he didn't. He sat. He listened. And what she had to tell was stirring something in him...something. Somehow, he knew he needed to hear this.

She placed her tiny, wrinkled hand on top of his. "He loved you, James," she said, with water beads in her eyes. "You were like brothers. Always at each other's side."

He tried not to tremble. Her touch felt like her voice; gentle and soft and nothing like a slap or a punch. It felt...good? Since when did contact feel _good?_

 _Focus. Focus. Focus._

He took a deep breath. "Where can I find him now?" he rasped.

He wasn't even commanding her at this point. He was at her mercy, begging her to know and to share that knowledge with him. He had to know.

The lines in her face deepened, and the water in her eyes grew. He was getting better at emotions; he knew this one was close to _hurt_. "Oh, James..." she whispered. "He crashed the plane. He's dead. We thought you were too."

He frowned. That couldn't be right. The man... _Steve?_...was alive. Perhaps this was where her condition stopped being useful.

Faint noises that shouldn't have been present at that time in the night whispered at the edges of his senses, and he turned his head. Through the walls of the building, he could hear voices— _they must be in the foyer_ —and he could hear what they were saying.

More importantly, _who_ was speaking.

 _ROGERS, STEVEN GRANT. ALIAS, CAPTAIN AMERICA. ELLIMINATE. MISSION: FAILED._

He gasped as a headache split through his temples, his right hand flying up to his head.

"James?" He barely heard her, his head was spinning so badly.

He couldn't fight it. He wasn't strong enough. His orders were to kill. If he saw... _his mission? Steve?_...now, he would have to obey. It would take every ounce of strength he had to fight it; and he didn't have enough.

 _No. I can't. I can't, I can't, I can't._

He stood up—a bit too quickly, because it set his head spinning again—and made for the window. "I have to go," he muttered, and shoved aside the curtains.

"Oh! Will you be all right?" she asked. There was something warm in her voice that he didn't know the name of.

He paused, having lifted the pane and screen and feeling the cold night air on his skin. He turned back and looked at the woman—Margaret.

"Yes," he said.

He jumped.

* * *

"So, what? So close, no cigar?"

It took all of Steve's self-control not to be upset with Tony. He knew he was trying to help. His image on the screen looked sympathetic under that abrasive front.

Steve sat with his head in his hands, Sam beside him on the couch, the tablet propped up on the coffee table in front of them, and Sam's feet crossed beside that.

"He ran as soon as we got there." Steve wondered if he sounded as dejected as he felt. "We tried to pursue, but there wasn't a trail to follow. He disappeared."

"I get that."

That was a new voice.

On the screen, Tony turned around and called over his shoulder. "Hey, Green Machine, they heard that." He backed up so Bruce came into view.

Steve sat up. He didn't want Bruce to talk about the Hulk if he'd rather not. "Banner, you don't have to—"

"No, it's fine." Bruce stepped forward, wringing his hands, and Tony stepped let him share the screen.

"I get the running thing," explained Bruce. "Not wanting to be found. I can't speak for him, but...when I was out there...I wasn't just afraid of what would be done to me. I was afraid of what _I'd_ do...to _them_."

Steve felt his heart clunk into his stomach.

Bruce was quiet. "Maybe he feels the same way."

"Sounds about right," muttered Sam.

"He's my _friend_ ," said Steve. He wasn't sure who he was trying to convince. "I'd never hurt him."

"I know," answered Bruce, " _I_ know, because I know you. But if I heard correctly, the last thing you did with this guy was fight him almost to the death."

" _Your_ death," Tony put in.

Steve couldn't argue with that. He said nothing and stared at his hands.

Sam stole a glance at him and then swung his feet down so that he could lean his elbows on his knees. "Dr. Banner," he said. "If you knew that someone was pursuing you who only wanted to help, to get you back on your own two feet again, would you let 'em do it?"

"Depends if they really could," Bruce said with a shrug. Steve could tell that he was trying to be nonchalant, but there was an edge to his voice. "And I say that because people have _tried_."

Steve lifted his head. "I'm sorry, Bruce."

Bruce nodded and pushed his glasses back up, glancing away.

Sam sighed, looking from one face to another. "I don't think I've ever expressed enough sympathy for all the crap you people have gone through. But in this case, at least," he added, his tone a little lighter, "I'm a counselor, and _he's_ stubborn as all get out." He jabbed a thumb at Steve, and Steve couldn't help but smile. "If anyone has a chance at this, it's us."

"That's fine," said Bruce. "And _I_ believe you. But..."

"If he still thinks he'll hurt us, it won't do away with that fear," Steve guessed.

"And there's no way for him to know we're here to help, either," Sam added grimly.

Bruce nodded.

All four went silent for a while. Naturally, Tony was the first to break the silence.

"Hey," he said, leaning towards the screen. "Don't tell me Captain Persistence is going to give up now."

"No, I'm not." Steve allowed himself a sad smile. "I think I've just realized how hard this will be."

* * *

When Steve and Sam had reached Peggy's room, light was visible in the crack under the door. Steve had burst in, shield up, and Sam behind him, gun ready. No one was there.

"Dammit..." hissed Sam.

"Oh, my," cried Peggy. "Who are you?"

Steve scanned the room in a moment and noticed the flapping blinds. "Sam, the window," he ordered.

"On it." Sam swung himself over the ledge and leaped out.

"Wait!" Peggy cried after him.

"He'll be okay," Steve assured her, bracing himself. "He does this all the time."

Peggy looked up at him with wide eyes filling with tears. "Steve?" she gasped.

He tried to muster a smile. This hurt every time. "Hi, Peggy."

She laughed in disbelief and shook her head. "Is everyone coming back from the dead today?" she asked, choked with emotion.

Steve felt time slow down. "He was here?" he asked quietly.

"James, yes. James came to visit me. He asked about you."

Steve could hardly speak. "Where did he go?" he gasped out.

"Out of the—" She looked around the room nonchalantly, and then her confidence faded into confusion and distress. "Oh dear. I don't know..."

Steve felt himself sag. "That's okay," he said, trying to put on a brave face, and strode forward to hold her hand gently. "Thank you, Peggy. Thank you."

Peggy stared into his face. "What's the matter?" she asked.

Even in this state, she could always see right through him. _What a dame_...

"They hurt him again," he explained hurriedly, shutting the window and moving for the door. "I need to find him. I can't explain, but I'll come visit soon, I promise."

Peggy looked desperately confused, but she put on the 'game face' that Steve had loved her for a lifetime ago. If not for the wrinkles and the white hair, she would have looked fresh from the battlefields of World War II. "Good luck, Steve. Take care of him. And take care of yourself."

Steve had smiled, his hand on the doorknob, before he'd left.

"I will."

* * *

"By the way," Tony added before their call ended, "Legolas dropped by and picked up your package. Promised he'd keep an eye out if he could."

Steve tried to muster a smile. It felt wan and pale. "Thanks, Tony."

"My pleasure to serve, as always, your spangledness."

At least Steve knew he had really great help.

 _tbc..._

* * *

 **A/N: So. I finally watched Infinity War.**

 **. . .**

 **Isn't Bucky's house _cute_?! I'm so happy that he's doing so well in Wakanda! I can't wait to write fic about it! What other part of the movie are you talking about?**

 **Reviews are windows.**


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Reportedly, Thor had shorted out almost half the lights in Avengers' Tower when he landed on its roof. Tony seemed livid that he could trip so many circuit breakers at once. Steve wished he could find it amusing.

It had been about a month and a half. Thor had only arrived for the hunt for Loki's scepter after collecting as much information about it as he could on Asgard.

Steve had no way to call in a favor while Thor was off-realm, but the Prince of Asgard wasn't stupid. He'd kept tabs on his friends and allies and important "Midgard happenings" even while he was away. And that's why, after Thor got over the amusing sight of "Captain Rogers' face on a tiny screen", they could get right to business.

Thor paced his room in the Tower, Mjolnir hung on a rack at the side of the screen. "Heimdall can only see in part, not in its entirety," he began, gesturing in the air as he talked. "That's why this hunt has been so arduous. He has many duties apart from my request of watching Midgard, and the matter of the scepter is far more pressing."

Steve nodded dumbly. He could feel the tightness of his skin under his eyes. He stood, leaning with both arms on the kitchen table that was cluttered with a few unwashed mugs, the tablet, and a map of the U.S. pocked full of marks where Bucky may or may not have been spotted.

Thor seemed to be staring at Steve for a moment through the screen, and then he smiled a little. "However, I spoke with him just recently before my return, and I can offer some good news. As of the last Heimdall saw, your friend is still within the limits of your capital city, and he shows no sign of going far."

At this, Steve stood up straighter. "He is? We lost the trail weeks ago. We thought he'd left the country."

Thor shook his head. "Not at all. He is not beyond your reach. The ill news, of course," he continued, his voice falling to just below booming, "is that he stays in no one place within that city—though he is injured, and ill."

Steve felt his shoulders slump. He stared at the colony of little red dots on his map that marked D.C. and whispered into his hand, "Aw, Buck, why do you have to do this after all the...?"

Thor was quiet. Once again, he watched Steve, his gaze steady. "The city is far too large for one man to search alone," he noted, surprisingly quiet.

"I have Wilson with me," Steve answered, rubbing the back of his neck. "A few more friends promised to keep an eye out, and JARVIS is monitoring pictures or videos posted locally."

Thor gave a single nod. "Your help is formidable."

Steve filled up his cheeks and let out a puff of air. "He can even avoid an iphone."

"As is he, apparently," Thor added.

Steve rubbed his aching eyes with his thumb and forefinger. He considered too late that Thor could see that.

When he opened his eyes, the Asgardian was looking right at him. "You should rest."

Steve stopped, pulled his hand from his face and looped both thumbs in his belt instead. "I can't," he said grimly.

"You must," insisted Thor.

"Not until we find him."

The two men were matched for stubbornness.

"Captain, I warn you," Thor rumbled like his signature thunder, "as one friend to another, no one can find a man who does not wish to be found."

His stern visage cracked, and a little bit of humanity peeked through. Steve wondered if he was thinking about Loki.

"And if he _is_ content to be found," Thor went on, "you will be of no use to him if you are not rested."

Steve was absolutely silent. He knew that at another time, in another place, the old Bucky he knew would have said the same thing, just with less words and more ear-boxing...and it made his heart ache in his chest.

Thor was quiet for some time. "Please."

Steve finally gave up and offered Thor a wan, but honest, smile. "I will. I promise." Immediately solicitous, he added, "Thank you, Thor, for everything." If he were physically in the same room, he would have offered his hand.

Thor beamed, all of his teeth showing, like the sun itself. "It was my pleasure."

 _tbc..._

* * *

 **A/N: Short chapter today. This is your warning that my work schedule this upcoming week is going to be crazy packed. Probably not gonna get another update out until next week, minimum.**

 **Reviews are skype.**


	7. Chapter 6

**A/N: Made a fix for continuity. It's a small detail from Slice of Cake, but an important one.**

* * *

 **Chapter Six**

Steve had a lot of work over the next couple of months. From Natasha's initial S.H.I.E.L.D. intel leak, the Avengers knew the locations of many small HYDRA bases peppered around the States, most of which were abandoned or destroyed by the time they got there.

Other times, they arrived to find the bases occupied, and proceeded to punch some heads in. The Avengers' hunt and Steve's personal search overlapped in one area: HYDRA was the one who had information both on the scepter and on Bucky. So he kept an eye out for news on both.

But the bases kept popping up like ticks, and intel from one would lead to the location of another would lead to information about another and so on. (Steve finally got the idea of "cut off one head, two shall take its place". It was an annoying moniker, but accurate.)

It was stressful work, and Steve came home with wounds and bruises after most missions. But he did his best to follow Thor's advice as the months passed.

Eight hours of sleep a night, though not a blink more. He'd need it. There was a lot of work to do.

* * *

He was getting sicker. The packaged rations he stole from rendezvous points that he'd rediscovered, half by memory and half by instinct, had run out weeks ago. He would occasionally feel the pain of a needle stuck in his arm when his stomach growled, as if it had happened again and again when his body required food, but he could never grasp the memory fully before it disappeared.

He lived on food from dumpsters and slept on discarded mattresses in alleys. That was probably the source of the sickness, but he had to take that chance. He stole what clothes he could and washed them and himself with hoses or the river; after all, people tended to look more at someone who smelled than someone who didn't.

He hardly got any sleep. The illness and empty stomach tended to keep him awake for a few days at a time until he dropped for a few hours from exhaustion before getting up again.

He had to get out of the city. The longer he stayed in one place, the likelier he was to be captured again by Them, and he'd almost wiped out all of the bases he knew of.

But there was one last information stop he had to take before he left.

Admission to the museum was free. Advantageous for him, but foolish in terms of security. Anybody could walk in there, and they'd all be in danger. He took note of the cameras surreptitiously hanging from the ceiling and tried to neither look at them directly nor seem like he was hiding his face.

The face of the Man He Knew was plastered larger than life across the wall. He found his own face, too, etched in glass.

The words on the glass and the voice over his head said that James Buchanan Barnes had given his life for his country. The name screamed at him in a million different voices, all of them saying _you should know you should know you should know_.

The Man He Knew on the bridge had been looking for a person. This person. His friend.

He stared at the face that was so like his, and yet so unlike it. He stared at the man with his face in the black and white video, laughing beside the Man He Knew.

That was him. It was, wasn't it? Or it had been. Before. Before all of the suffering and the orders and the killing.

Before Them.

He had been...Bucky.

But that was terrifying. That meant that They had taken a man and erased him. It meant that They had stolen someone's own person from himself. They could _do_ that? They had that power?

And whatever was left was what _he_ was—broken, fragmented memories, instincts based on forgotten training, and an empty space where a purpose and dreams and desires should be.

He'd observed people with friends, family, and objectives. He knew what they were. He'd been trained that they were weaknesses to exploit. He couldn't remember having them himself.

But if he was Bucky, then he _had_ , once.

And it had been stolen from him.

Before he knew what he was doing, his flesh fingers were ghosting over the words of the display. In sudden terror that he'd be noticed for such an odd motion, he glanced over his shoulder.

False alarm. The family across the hall wasn't paying attention, too busy with the children who were jumping and making excited observations and asking for food.

He relaxed, running his fingers over the bumps in the glass. But his blurring vision was starting to turn them into smudged lines of white, so he stuck his hand in his pocket and moved on.

There were photographs. There were letters. A huge book sat basically ignored on a table in the corner, and when he opened it, there were fragmented letters, sheathed in plastic and laminated. Preserved.

He knew the handwriting.

It was his.

There were old food wrappers in his pocket covered with the same hurried scrawl.

He read the book for almost an hour, though it became harder as his headache worsened. Most of these were written from the warfront, either to "Bucky's" family in a place called Brooklyn or to "Steve" before "Steve" himself joined the war.

They mentioned names and places, passing events and incidental memories, and gradually he started to remember whispers of things he'd seen and heard but couldn't sort them into a time and place, like a smell he could recognize but didn't know from where.

It was real. They were all real, and he'd experienced it, and maybe—just _maybe_ —all of this belonged to him.

He had an unopened envelope in his back pocket, and he pulled it out. It was wet and crumpled, dirtied by the print of a boot, but there was just enough dry space on the corner for one note.

He had to write some of this down. He had to take it with him; some snatch of information that he could take back to his nest of files, so that he wouldn't forget this.

But what could he write? He looked around the displays for a moment, trying to decide.

Maybe he'd just have to write down the beginning.

He'd found the pen in a dumpster behind an office building, and it was bent and nearly out of ink. Part of his words were blue with ink, and the others were just scratched into the surface of the white paper by the pointed tip.

 _Steven Grant Rogers born July 4 1918_

He paused. And below it:

 _James Buchanen Barnes born March 10 1917_

 _Bucky_

His headache was getting worse, and he started to feel it in his stomach. He'd have to return later.

Groups of people lined the twisting hallway, all of them crowded around one display or another, scrutinizing it, talking freely, or peering at their phones. Bucky wove his way between each group, trying to keep his head down and touch no one.

Perhaps it was a mistake to get out of there in a hurry. Every display he caught out of the corner of his eye brought its own rush of pictures and images of another time to his mind, and it was one after another after another until he was almost overwhelmed. He started to feel like water in his knees, and he squinted at the carpet under his feet.

 _Too much. It's too much. It's too much..._

It took several false steps before Bucky made it back to the parking garage he'd called home. The climb up the stairs to his uppermost corner was arduous with his aching head and stomach, and when he got there, he almost collapsed in grief.

The birds and spiders were still there, but the nest was gone. Someone had stolen all of his folders.

All he had now was the envelope.

Bucky knew he had to get out of the city.

* * *

Steve had been asleep in the hotel room in D.C. when the phone rang at 2:54 AM. He and Sam, both being soldiers, started awake as soon as it buzzed, and Sam reached the side table between his bed and Steve's first.

Sam sat up, squinted at the phone screen's light, pressed the button, and blearily raised it to his ear. "Hello?"

Steve rubbed his eyes as his enhanced hearing picked up the reply. "Hey, is Rogers there?"

"Who's speaking?" asked Sam, not unkindly, but in a gruff 'you just woke me up at an unholy hour' voice.

"He'll know me," was the reply. "It's Clint."

Steve swung his legs into the aisle between the two beds and held out his hand to Sam, and, as if he realized he didn't need to answer, Sam handed over the phone.

"Barton?" Steve asked into the microphone.

"Hey, Cap." Clint sounded relieved. "Look, I'll cut to the chase. Remember the surveillance I said I'd do for your person of interest?"

Steve bolted upright, all traces of sleep fleeing from his body. "You found him?"

"Yep, got a bead on him," Clint affirmed. "But I think he knows I'm here. Should I engage?"

"What, no—no." Steve was so full of adrenaline he could hardly speak. "Wait 'til I get there. I want to talk to him."

In the dim light, Sam made a face, but said nothing.

"What's your coordinates?" Steve asked, grabbing the nearby pad of paper and pen.

Clint rattled them off as Steve jotted down the numbers on his leg, but his hand began to slow in shock.

"What is it?" asked Sam.

Steve was quiet. "That's Brooklyn."

Silence reigned in the little room for a moment.

"Take your time," Clint finally said. "I've pulled worse all-nighters."

Solicitous again, Steve gripped the phone properly so that it wouldn't slip out of his fingers. "Thank you. Don't let him out of your sight."

"You got it. And Steve—"

Suddenly Clint wasn't the Avenger talking to his Captain anymore, but an older man talking to a scared, young one, and Steve hung on his every word. "It's going to be okay."

Steve gave a silent nod, willing his heartbeat to slow down, and answered with a heavy breath, "Thank you, Clint."

"You're welcome." And with that, he hung up.

"Home sweet home, huh?" Sam had gotten out of bed and was pulling on his shoes.

Steve jabbed in a new number on the phone. "Don't ask me." He lifted it to his ear and added, "I'm calling in a favor. We need the Quinjet."

Pulling on his coat, Sam muttered a prayer under his breath. "Lord, let it be the one, this time."

* * *

Bucky had almost returned to his instinctual tactics when he saw the figure on the roof.

Almost. For one thing, he didn't want to kill again. For another thing, he was in no shape to fight.

His body had gotten sicker and weaker over the journey to this city, and his mind had gotten foggier as a result. Try as he might to hide in the rain-soaked alleys, he couldn't shake the pursuer; one shot from that bow and it would be over for him.

But he'd come too far to leave without the information he came for.

Bucky's hand shook as he traced the plaque on the old apartment with his fingers. Everything in this neighborhood was new but the building marked as the home of Steve Rogers.

It made fragmented pictures flare up in his mind, then disappear.

 _A brick, a key, suit-coats and the chime of the church bell in the distance—"I'm with you 'til the end of the line"..._

This too had been his. It no longer was.

That was starting to seem familiar in itself.

He ducked into another alley, hoping against hope that he wouldn't be seen by the figure on the roofs, and clutched the envelope to his chest to keep it dry.

He'd escape at first daylight if he could. He just had to sit for a moment, and maybe close his eyes.

He was tired.

So tired.

* * *

Steve wondered if he should have been surprised that Tony was awake at three in the morning, working on a complicated project in his lab. In any case, it was to his favor. Tony sent the Quinjet as requested and JARVIS insisted once again that Tony go to sleep before he hung up.

Oh well. At least Steve wasn't alone in the insomnia thing.

The Quinjet touched down near-silently in a field next to the hotel, and Steve and Sam were ready. Steve could pilot the thing to New York just fine (first thing he learned after getting out of the ice was how to fly a plane), but JARVIS was already programmed for auto-pilot when they made the drop-off over Brooklyn's crowded downtown.

As they cruised over the drop zone and Steve flicked a switch to let JARVIS take over, he heard a huff of a laugh from Sam in the back.

"What is it?" he asked, standing out of the pilot's seat and turning around.

With a significant effort, Sam lifted a very Tony Stark version of the Falcon wings that Tony had apparently left on board. A sticky note pasted near the center of the folded wings read "Feathers #2".

Sam was grinning as he shrugged the contraption onto his back. "Never say he ain't a giver."

Despite his nerves, Steve had to chuckle.

They dropped out the access ramp in the back, and Sam used those wings to help them both coast safely to the ground.

Steve stepped onto Brooklyn asphalt for the first time since he'd been thawed.

It was time to find Bucky.

 _tbc..._

* * *

 **A/N: Bucky's finds in the Smithsonian, especially young Bucky's letters to Steve, were largely inspired by the** **howlinghistory blog on tumblr which I just discovered a couple days ago. Go check it out if you want to see more stuff that Bucky probably saw on display.**

 **Reviews are envelopes.**


	8. Chapter 7

**A/N: Okay, so, I'm scheduled to have yet another REALLY heavy work week, so I'm gonna slam this out before I have no more time to do so. Please go read the updated version of the last chapter for this one to make sense.**

 **Also, new POV! Clint's!**

* * *

 **Chapter Seven**

Clint stalked the scruffy-looking figure from the rooftop for a few hours. If he had to be honest, with all that Nat and Steve had told him about this guy, this was the last place he would have expected to find the Winter Soldier—out in the rain, curled up on his side in an alley beside a housing development in Brooklyn.

Nuts. You'd think the guy would be punching Nazi's heads in for revenge or something.

He appeared to be sleeping, but Clint knew that posture that let him keep an eye on his surroundings. So he kept his head down so that the man couldn't see him on the roof.

Weird as it was, though, Clint had to admit that in a way, the Winter Soldier in Brooklyn made sense. And the way the shadow with the five o'clock shadow had stared at the plaque on Cap's old apartment, it made a terrible amount of sense.

He was starting to remember.

Clint was familiar with brainwashing. He'd seen it undone—case in point, his bestest friend in the whole wide world (who hated it when he called her that). He knew about the point where what you've been taught begins to clash with what you know is right, and he knew about the volatile emotions that come with it.

The benefit of being on one end of the spectrum or the other—either perfectly sane or with your brain perfectly hosed—is that you're at least stable and predictable. There's no change; no unpredictability to insanity.

But if the Soldier—Bucky—was starting to remember, Clint knew that this could be the most unstable and dangerous he would ever be.

And that's why, when he popped his head up between bouts of lighting and the man had disappeared from the alley, he panicked.

"Dammit!" he hissed and bolted down the indoor stairs two at a time. It was nighttime and the lights weren't on, so he navigated by flashes of lightning and the street lights outside windows. _Thump, thump, thump_ , jump over the handrail, _thump, thump, thump_. He swung around the bannister on the third floor and—

The Winter Soldier stood in front of him, a pistol pointed at his head.

Clint raised his hands in surrender and backed up.

It was dark. The shape of the man was only lit from behind by a window at the far end of the hall.

Wow. This was _exactly_ like the first time he met Natasha.

 _Okay, stay calm. Stay calm. Show him you're not a threat and maybe you won't die._

 _Maybe._

"Hey, there, Bucky." Clint slowly set his bow on the ground by his feet, and reached around to unbuckle his quiver and set it down too. He kicked them slightly to the side, and they scraped on the floor. "Sorry I spooked ya."

Bucky didn't lower the gun. "I don't know you." His voice rasped like gravel.

Clint barely stopped himself from showing any surprise. "You're right," he said. "I'm Clint." Then he thought about it for a second and figured that wasn't a very good explanation. "Somebody told me that was your name."

Bucky's posture was still a hostile one, but his head lifted with recognition.

 _Bingo._

"You know who I'm talking about, right?" asked Clint. He took a step forward. "Captain America? Steve Rogers?"

To Clint's disappointment, Bucky didn't put the gun down. "You're with him." It was the kind of question that sounded like a statement, but it still sounded hostile.

"Yep," Clint answered, trying to sound light. "I'm here because he's looking for you."

"I know. What for?" he growled.

Clint felt his face crumpling. "To _help_ ," he said, as sympathetically and firmly as he could.

Bucky didn't put his weapon down, but he did look away for a second.

If Clint was careful, he could get him to put the gun down.

"Why were you running?" he asked.

That was a mistake. The hand holding the gun shook, and Bucky's head dropped, a grimace outlined in the light outside.

"Hey, hey." Clint backed up, hands in front of his face. _Ohh, man, I blew it._ One bad twitch from Bucky's finger and Clint would be picking a bullet out of himself. Worse, Barnes seemed to be remembering something... _horrific._

Clint took a deep breath, silently thanked Coulson, and managed to blurt out, "Look, whatever it is HYDRA did to you, that's never going to happen again. They're gone. The guy running that freak show is _dead_."

Bucky, still breathing heavily, looked up at Clint through his dark hair. He seemed to be calming down, but not by much.

"And Steve doesn't mean you any harm. He wants to offer you a place to stay. Protection, from anyone in HYDRA. And, well..." Clint thought for a second. "Friendship, I'm sure, if you'll have him. You mean a lot to him."

Bucky was breathing more steadily. His shoulders still bristled, but he seemed to notice the gun at last and dropped it to his side. "Why?" he asked Clint, his voice still wild.

Clint's ear-com buzzed to life with Cap's voice, announcing that they just made the drop-off. It sounded loud in the silence of nighttime with only the rain on the roof. Clint smiled slightly.

"You can ask him yourself," he answered. "He'll be here soon."

Bucky stared directly at him—and maybe at his ear. Clint wondered if he could hear things super well like Cap. Would explain some things.

"But in the meantime..." Clint reached into his pocket and pulled out a little key with a tag. He held it out, both hands visible in front of Bucky. "He asked me to give you this, if I ever found you first. You know what this is, don't you?"

Bucky, with a scrambled-egg brain or not, still sounded offended. "Yes."

Clint had to chuckle. He liked this guy already.

But something big went _thump_ on the stairwell, and the next thing Clint knew was the _bang_ of a gunshot and the heat of a bullet whizzing past his ear. Something whacked his skull into the wall and dropped him.

His head spun, and he heard yelling and the jingle of keys ( _keys...why keys?_ ) as he dragged himself up onto one elbow. Glass crashed somewhere he couldn't tell.

He felt around blindly for his bow and scooped it up. Someone else ran past, moving straight towards the window.

"Hey. Quick, get up." That came from right beside him. A strong hand pulled him to his feet and steadied him. "You all right?"

Clint found himself held up by a black man with a gap in his front teeth and a worried look on his face. "Yeah, m' good," he slurred. "You're Cap's backup?"

The man snorted. "Something like that."

Clint, now cognizant again, strung his bow. "We gotta go after him."

"Steve's already on it," the man said grimly.

And that's when Clint realized that Cap had just jumped out the third-story window.

* * *

Steve felt the rain on his face before he felt the ground. He hit the street below running, grimacing against the shock to his legs of falling three stories, and took off after Bucky.

Puddles swam in the street and reflected dim stoplights. Steve's old apartment loomed right there across the street. He hadn't visited ever since he was thawed; the memory was too painful.

" _Bucky!_ "

Steve screamed his name and tore through the puddles. The streets were empty and dark.

"Bucky! _Bucky!_ Please don't do this!" His breath caught in his throat. "Please, I've come this far. I can't lose you again. _Please!_ "

But one intersection after another after another turned up nothing.

He was gone.

Steve collapsed onto the asphalt, hands and knees, and he couldn't tell the difference between the raindrops and the tears. The drone of the rain and his heavy breathing were the only sounds on the empty street.

He was alone.

He was alone again.

Just like when he woke up.

Just like when Bucky fell off the train.

Alone, alone, alone.

* * *

 _"So how was it?"_

 _"It was okay. She's next to Dad."_

 _"I was gonna ask..."_

 _"I know what you're gonna say, Buck."_

 _"We can put the couch cushions on the floor like when we were kids. It'll be fun. All you gotta do is shine my shoes, maybe take out the trash."_

 _He kicked the brick aside and handed him the spare key._

 _"Come on."_

 _He took it, palmed it in his hand for a moment, and then looked up._

 _"Thank you, Buck. But I can get by on my own."_

 _"The thing is...you don't have to."_

* * *

 _You don't have to..._

Bucky lifted the key, his fingers shaking, and read the tag.

He knew the address. It was an apartment in the capitol.

It was a home.

Steve's home.

 _'Cause I'm with you 'til the end of the line._

He opened the envelope—the last thing he had—soaked through with rainwater and scrawled over with the names and dates in the corner, and dropped the key inside.

His fist shook as he held it, and he pressed the paper to his lips.

Steve didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve to lose his best friend. He didn't deserve to come so close to death. He didn't deserve to deal with everything that had gone wrong in Bucky's head.

But maybe it didn't matter.

He wanted him back anyway.

And Bucky knew he couldn't do this alone.

* * *

Steve heard footsteps on the asphalt behind him. Sam and Clint, he had to guess, by the weight of them. But they didn't come close.

 _Why not...?_

Steve lifted his head. There was a dark figure standing in front of him in the street.

Obscured by rain, uncut hair, and old clothes, but he knew it like his own name nonetheless.

"Bucky."

Steve scrambled to his feet, the tears clearing from his eyes and running down his cheeks.

 _Please,_ he pleaded, _remember me. Please, say something. Don't be silent like on the Helicarrier. Don't tell deny it like on the bridge. Please, just tell me you remember me. Tell me you remember yourself._

"Steve."

His voice rasped. He sounded wary and tired.

But he was here. He was alive.

He remembered.

"Yeah, Buck, it's me." Steve fought to smile through his tears as he extended a hand, praying to God that Bucky would take it. "It's good to see you."

Bucky stared at his hand, stared at Steve, and clutched his metal arm through the jacket sleeve, his face screwing up. " _Eto ne verno._ You were a target. You were my mission..."

Steve held his breath, his chest aching.

"I was supposed to kill you," he whispered brokenly.

"You don't have to anymore. No more orders. No more missions." _Please, please, please believe me,_ Steve pleaded. "You're free."

Even in the dim light, Steve could see Bucky's wide eyes. " _B_ _ol'she nikogda?_ I'm _free?_ "

Steve felt his face screwing up. They hurt him so _badly_.

And then he felt cold, shaking fingers slot into his extended hand. Steve's breath caught in his throat, and he gripped them back tightly.

He had Bucky's hand in his own, just like he never got to that day on the train.

Bucky stared at his shoes before looking up. "I...I need help."

"I know," Steve whispered. "It's okay."

He took Bucky's arms gently. Bucky put his head on Steve's shoulder.

And Steve hugged him, as the rain poured down on them both.

"I know you."

"Yeah, you do. You do."

Steve was about to break. He couldn't count the times he'd wished for Bucky to be here with him in this bizarre future, so that he'd have a shoulder to lean on when he had nobody else. And now, Bucky was here, but he was broken...a shred of who he was.

He smelled musky and unwashed by anything but the rain, and the long, ragged hair and beard were nothing that he would have worn before. He was emaciated, exhausted, and confused.

But he was here.

 _He's here, he's alive, he's_ here _._

When he finally pulled away from Steve's shoulder, Bucky was red-eyed and exhausted, breathing through chapped lips. Steve pushed away a tear from his eye, only for it to be replaced with rainwater.

Bucky's eyes blew up wide, and he leaned into Steve's hand.

Steve bit his lip. "You'll...you'll come with us, won't you?" he blurted.

He was a little desperate. His heart was aching so badly it was hard to breathe. He just wanted his _best friend_.

Bucky's stare, his cheek still in Steve's hand, was blank. Not as blank as on the Helicarrier, but...chilling.

 _Please. Please, please, please say yes,_ Steve begged internally. _I miss you so much._

Bucky slowly nodded. "I will," he rasped. "I don't know...much, anymore. But I can follow you."

Steve smiled like his face would break. "'Til the end of the line."

Bucky didn't smile, but the look in his eyes was finally free from the wild edge of grief.

Bucky was trying to stay steady on his feet, but failing. Steve took his hand, pulled him close, and put his shield over their heads. They were both soaked through already, but it felt good to protect him at last.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Sam and Clint stood there, a ways off...Sam had his arms crossed and eyes slightly averted, and Clint looked on warily but sadly.

Steve slung Bucky's arm over his shoulders to support him. The broken man leaned willingly into his side.

"Let's go home," Steve said to his friends, holding back tears.

 _tbc..._

* * *

 **A/N: I just can't resist a good bout of heartbreaking symbolism.**

 **Reviews are keys.**


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

 **A/N: Step One – try not to rip off of theoriginalbookthief07**

 **Step Two – try not to include too much angst**

 **Step Three – fail on both accounts**

 **So this is going to be a two-part update. I'm actually heading to Honduras for a week (MISSIONS TRIP BABY WOO), but I gave Mish permission to post the next chapter sometime this week. It's already written and you'll get it soon! I'll reply to your reviews when I return. Enjoy, my dudes!**

* * *

The journey on the flying machine only took about ten minutes, but it felt like an hour. Bucky tried to focus on his surroundings, but it was getting steadily more difficult as he drifted in and out of consciousness. The Man with the Bow stood in one corner, making a call that he couldn't quite follow; the Man with Wings sat nearby, watching him with his arms crossed; and the Man He Kn—Steve was in the pilot's seat of the plane, taking them home.

Home. Bucky almost shivered at the thought. He knew he'd had one, once; or maybe his past self had. His memories, and the plaque at the apartment, and the museum said as much.

But he didn't know "home". He knew bases and rendezvous points, and a painful itch at the back of his mind told him he knew _storage facilities_ (huge tubes that they put him inside, pipes and _ice_ ), but he didn't know "home".

He didn't know why the Man H—Steve was doing any of this for him. Why he would go to such lengths for someone who only existed in the past.

Maybe the M—Steve had a mission. Maybe Steve was his new handler. It would be a relief, now, to have some kind of order. To follow some commands. Bucky just wanted to know what he was supposed to _do_.

At the moment, he could hardly do a thing but struggle to stay awake, and fight the nausea that was boiling in his stomach in the motion of the jet.

He hardly noticed that the—Steve had approached him before it was almost too late.

"Are you all right, Buck?"

It took a second to register that the question was directed at him. Bucky lifted his head. The familiar face had a duplicate that shifted in and out of focus in front of his eyes.

A hand reached down towards him. Bucky flinched. He'd failed to respond in time. He'd be hit. He'd—

Steve's touch was gentle, and it brushed his hair aside and pressed gently against his aching head.

And that felt so _good_ that before he could process the surprise, Bucky leaned in to his hand and almost whined.

It was pathetic. He was too tired to care.

Steve's voice was far away. "You're ill."

The emotion in it was a complicated one. Bucky didn't have the energy to figure it out right now.

"Lowered...function...due to conditions," he reported, his voice quieter than usual in his aching throat. "Minor damage only."

Steve was quiet. When he spoke again, there was something in his voice like ice or metal.

"I don't care how 'minor' it is," he said slowly. "If you're ill, then the minute we get home we're giving you everything you need to get well. And you're going to rest."

So that was it. That was the mission—repair. Bucky could have collapsed in relief, if not for the nagging fear he would fail this command as well.

How he would do that, he wasn't sure. But the—Steve was the last person he wanted to anger.

"Ready to comply," he whispered.

Another silence. He could only hear the jet engines.

"Mm...no," said a new voice, and Bucky looked up to see him. His vision was still blurry, but he could tell it wasn't the Man with the Bow, but the other man who had accompanied Steve—the Man with Wings.

"We don't really do 'ready to comply' around here," he said.

Bucky's mind went blank.

"What Steve means to say is that he's worried about you," the man went on, but Bucky hardly heard him. "He cares. And if you're feeling under the weather, we want to help."

Bucky's head was spinning before he finished speaking. So it wasn't a mission? No orders? No handler?

"Then," he rasped—afraid of speaking out of turn, but more afraid of disobeying—"who is my handler? What is my mission?"

Steve's breathing had gotten tight and short, and Bucky couldn't remember what that meant.

"I...I don't know about a handler, Buck," he said, and it sounded like it took effort, "but if you have to have a mission, from now on, you get to choose it yourself. I'm not going to give you orders. I'm not your handler, or whatever it is. I'm your _friend_."

And that was something Bucky almost understood.

"I know who you're looking for," he said slowly. Words weren't coming to him easily. "I read about your friend in a museum."

Steve took a sudden breath in.

"I remember things about him..." _How he smiled. How he lived a life. How he had friends. How he had a home. How he was yours._ Bucky bit his lip. "But I'm _not_ that anymore.

"All I know how to do is follow orders. Kill." And Steve didn't want that. Bucky didn't know why not, but Steve didn't want that, and Bucky didn't want to make him angry. He dropped his head and grit his teeth against the pain. "Why do you want me back?"

And the next thing he knew was a warm hand on the back of his neck that held him steady and sent warmth all through his aching head and chest.

"Because I don't give up easy," said Steve, and he sounded like his voice was breaking. "Because when I said 'to the end of the line', I meant it. Because you're my brother, and whether or not you remember it, I love you."

Bucky's vision had finally cleared a little. He could see the wetness coming from Steve's eyes again.

"Because I know what you can be," Steve managed, looking him right in the eyes. "And I _have_ to have hope that you can be that again."

Bucky shut his eyes and let his forehead rest against Steve's.

It felt right. Not many things did, but this did.

He heard something; someone getting up, and footsteps as they walked away.

Steve was the first one to pull away from him, and Bucky missed the warmth already. "You said you went to a museum? The Smithsonian?"

Bucky nodded.

Steve grasped his arms tightly, but not enough to hurt. "Then you know that even when money was scarce and everyone around thought a sickly guy like me was a danger and a hopeless case, you looked at me and you saw a _friend_."

Steve tried to smile, but Bucky could tell there was something wrong with it. "Why shouldn't I return the favor?"

Bucky gave him another long, steady look, but it was interrupted as the plane shook underneath him. He blinked, groaned, and doubled over against the nausea pinching his stomach.

"Hey, hey," Steve said quietly. He did something behind Bucky and then supported his back as he led him downwards. "Here, lie down. We're almost there."

The seat was now like a table...or a bed. Bucky settled back and tried to get comfortable. Steve was being so unbelievably kind.

The expression on Steve's face looked like "hurt".

Bucky didn't know why.

* * *

Steve didn't know it heart could break right out of his chest, but it sure felt like it would. He wasn't sure how much more of this he could take without completely losing composure.

Bucky had been through so much _pain._ And he was still in pain. Steve wanted him back, but...not like _this_.

Never like this.

They'd landed the Quinjet somewhere quiet and gotten inside Steve's apartment by some miracle—Bucky was so spent that he could hardly stand up, much less climb the stairs, so he leaned on Steve's shoulder the whole way.

Steve knew that he had to get him out of his wet clothes, but there was the problem of a bath first. And Steve didn't want to do anything without Bucky's consent.

The only problem seemed to be that Bucky didn't know how to give consent anymore.

Steve had shown him to the little bathroom and provided some of his own clothes (they would be a bit big, with how rail-thin Bucky had gotten, but too big was better than too small), but now they were at an impasse. If Bucky didn't remember himself, how could he remember...

"Surely you know how to get clean," Steve said, a little desperately.

Bucky was sitting on the closed toilet, and he looked around at the shower and bath and nodded.

"I...I can leave you to take care of that by yourself," Steve tried. It was a risk, but he didn't want to intrude on his friend's privacy. Even if Bucky couldn't stand up by himself, he deserved that courtesy. "Or help, if you want."

Bucky was quiet for a moment, his eyes searching the floor tiles. " _Ya ne ponimayu_ ," he whispered.

Steve recognized Russian, but he didn't know what it meant.

Bucky must have noticed him waiting for an explanation, because he ducked his head and rasped, "Asset doesn't make decisions."

Steve's fists tightened against the pressure forming in his throat and behind his eyes. On the outside, he tried very, _very_ hard not to seem mad at Bucky, while on the inside he simultaneously cursed HYDRA and all of their kind and wished them an eternity in a lake of fire.

"Well, your name's not Asset," he managed, and he only sounded slightly angry. "It's Bucky. And he _does_ get to choose what he wants."

That anger must have been enough, though, because Bucky shrank back from him and hid his face in his hair.

"No, no—" Steve sighed. If he had to take any more of this, his heart would break. He kneeled on the bathroom floor. "Bucky, I'm not mad at you. It's not your fault."

Bucky didn't move.

"I'm not going to hurt you. I'm sorry. Please—"

Bucky turned his head at that, and the look he gave Steve was so pleading and trusting that it almost took his breath away.

When Steve found his voice again, it was quieter. "Just say the word, and I'll leave. One word, that's all it takes."

Bucky looked up at the shower-head again, and then back to Steve.

"Stay," he rasped.

Steve took a second to let that sink in.

"Okay."

Steve drew a bath for him, taking care that it was comfortably hot but not scalding. Bucky undressed himself mechanically, but Steve noticed that he had trouble around the left shoulder; and when he got the shirt off, he could see why.

It was all metal. Plates of it stretched down into the muscles of his chest and back, and angry, irritated burn lines traced along the edge where metal met skin.

Steve turned away so that Bucky couldn't see his jaw grit. He wished he could punch in the heads of the monsters who'd done that to his friend.

The minute Bucky touched the water, his eyes swelled to the size of dinner plates. He sat down and stared for a while.

"It's warm," he whispered, and he ran his flesh hand through it.

"Yeah, Buck." Steve scooped up some water between his hands and poured it gently over Bucky's head. "You're never gonna be cold again."

He helped Bucky wash his hair (it was an absolute mop, and an easier job with two hands, and Bucky shut his eyes while Steve rubbed the shampoo up into a lather) and scrub his back with a bath sponge. He had to be ever so careful around the burns, but he managed to work the dirt out of the seam between the flesh and metal. Bucky managed the rest on his own, by some shred of memory.

He was so _thin_. Bucky had looked lean enough in armor, but now that he didn't have that or a coat or anything, Steve could see that his ribs stuck out, and he looked absolutely emaciated. He was dotted with old bruises and scratches, and Steve couldn't help but wince at every one.

His own serum had done a better job with _bullet wounds_ than this—but that had been with the help of a hospital, good food, and rest. Bucky had probably had none of those for a very long time.

 _Well,_ Steve thought, as he threw out his jaw a little, _not until now._

When Bucky was clean, dry, and dressed, Steve decided he would try again with the 'letting him make choices' thing. He took a deep breath and braced himself.

"Do you want something to eat?" he asked.

Once again, Bucky stared at the floor.

Steve sighed. "There's no wrong answer," he said quietly. "I just want to know what you need."

Bucky bit his lip. "I don't know."

Steve shook his head and looped Bucky's arm over his shoulders to steady him. "Okay. Come on."

They stepped out the door, and the minute they did, Steve was hit with the aroma of spices and heat. He didn't recall which of the other two had offered to cook, but whatever they were making smelled amazing.

Right on cue, Bucky's stomach roared. Steve smiled banally at him.

Bucky tried to hide his face. "W-want," he whispered. "Need."

"I know, Buck," Steve answered, and steered him towards the kitchen. "Let's go get you some."

* * *

Natasha set the lid back on the soup pot and turned to the other two men. "Okay, now we wait. It'll be ready soon."

"Ready when exactly?" asked Sam as he raised an eyebrow and bent over the pot.

Natasha tossed her head. "Timers are for capitalists. It'll be done when it's done."

"As a capitalist, I resemble that statement," remarked Clint from where he had his heels kicked up on the kitchen table.

Natasha smiled indulgently at him.

"So what are we gonna do when Steve gets out?" Sam asked, arms crossed.

Natasha raised an eyebrow at him. "Besides feed him and the ex-assassin he brought home?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah. He's not in good shape." He paused and seemed to consider something. "Either of them."

Natasha let herself stop the joking facade. "He's not taking this well, is he?"

"No."

Natasha sighed. "Let me go talk to him. I know how this goes from the inside."

Just then, Steve rounded the corner with the Winter Soldier leaning on his arm, and the whole room went silent.

"Nat," Steve breathed, staring at her with wide eyes.

Natasha put on her best smile as she took stock of his expression. He seemed tired and worn out, but holding it together—just barely. That much was to be expected. "Hi," she said.

"I called in back-up, Steve," said Clint.

Steve looked over his way. "Yeah," he said. "Thanks."

Natasha expertly kept the frown off her face. He seemed distracted. Overwhelmed. Maybe he did need that break more badly than she thought.

"Soup's almost ready," she said to Steve. "Want to let him sit down?"

Steve came back to his senses and looked at the man leaning on his arm. "Uh—yeah. Thank you."

Clint pulled out a chair, and Steve steered in that direction. Barnes had kept quiet so far—he was just looking around the room, analyzing and watching, and his gaze had landed on Natasha for a long time before he was forced to turn away. He seemed meek and tired; not at all the terror she had encountered before.

Natasha decided that he was still a wild card, but that a potential danger was better than an immediate one.

"Hey, Steve." She set her hand on his shoulder as soon as he was free. "Can we talk?"

Steve looked up in blank surprise, then nodded. "I'll be right back, Bucky."

Barnes looked up at his voice, and then right back down at the table.

Natasha caught Sam's eye as she steered Steve out of the kitchen.

He was right. This wasn't going to be easy.

* * *

"So, how is the plan going?" asked Natasha. She tried to keep her tone light, but she wouldn't hide what she was hinting at.

Steve looked bewildered. "I...had to put that on hold."

Natasha tipped her head to the side, peering into him. It was almost uncanny, really, that now their places were reversed from right after the bunker in Jersey...

"What's going on?" she asked quietly.

Steve sighed. "You told me I had to be ready for this." Tears formed in his eyes, and he went on, his voice cracking with grief, "I wasn't."

Natasha let her gaze fall, and she said nothing.

What could she say, after all?

Steve took a deep breath (and for Steve, that was a _big_ breath), obviously struggling to compose himself. "He still thinks this is about orders."

Natasha shrugged. So had she. "Maybe that's all he knows," she said gently.

Steve was crumbling. "I can't do it." He winced. "He was the confident one, he was strong, he wasn't... _this_."

"Oh, Steve," whispered Natasha.

He looked at her with pained, kicked-puppy blue eyes.

"C'mere," she said, and pulled him in for a hug.

He sunk into it and put his head on her shoulder. Though Steve was easily taller and stronger than her, in life experience he was still younger—and Natasha wondered how often people forgot that, that Steve was young and still needed the reassurance.

He was shaking in her arms, but she couldn't hear a sound. He was holding back.

Natasha sighed. She began to rub his back in slow, steady strokes. "It hurts because you care," she whispered. "Don't lose that. You'll need it."

He held on a little bit longer, then pulled away, wiping his eyes.

Natasha gave him one of those smiles that somehow admits that something is wrong. "I know this is hard," she said. "But it's not impossible."

"How do you know?" Steve didn't seem to disbelieve her, but he was tired. She understood that.

She couldn't help but grin, a little, just for herself. "I know a girl." Natasha let the grin fall as she went on, "She got unmade, just like him. And if she were here, right now, talking to you, she'd tell you that putting back together takes time. But it happens."

Steve smiled. It was a start.

"Why did you come here?" he asked.

Natasha blinked and shifted her weight onto her other heel. "Barton called me."

He shook his head. "That's not enough. You were undercover."

Steve always did seem to pull genuine smiles out of her. "Yeah, well, that was for me." She looked up at him and said, totally sincerely, "Maybe your honesty is rubbing off on me a little, Rogers."

The redness had started to clear from his eyes. He was really smiling now.

Natasha hated to bring it up again, but she knew she had to. "Do you _want_ to give him orders?" she asked quietly.

And just like that, the smile was gone. "I don't," said Steve. _Stubborn_.

"Maybe better you than anyone else."

He sighed and didn't meet her eyes. "Maybe."

"It worked out for me."

And that's when he met her eyes, and he looked a little lighter.

"Come on." Natasha smiled and pulled at his arm. "You'll feel better after you try some _plov_."

 _tbc..._

* * *

 **A/N: Reviews are _plov_.**


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

The soup had some kind of rice and a lot of spices in it. It was hot—nothing Bucky had had to eat for the past few months had been hot. It scalded his tongue the first time he took a sip, so he resolved to eat it slowly.

As dangerous as it was to have any opinion, he felt that he liked it. Yet he could hardly seem to touch the food. Two voices—the voice of the new woman and...Steve—hovered at the edge of his hearing, and try as he might, he couldn't ignore what they were saying. He eventually set down the spoon, lifted his head, and turned towards the hall.

"Ah. Can't eat 'cause your buddy's upset, huh?"

Bucky whipped his head back to the front, which made it smart. He'd forgotten about the other man sitting at the table in front of him.

He was smiling. Normally that indicated no ill will. And there was something else in it...something Bucky didn't recognize.

Bucky lowered his eyes, trying to hide on the other side of the table. "I tore off your wings," he said quietly. "And kicked you. You fell."

The other man raised his eyebrow and snorted. "Yeah, and it was a pretty long way down, too."

There was something unusual in his expression. Watchfulness. Bucky hadn't seen that in Steve, and it made him nervous.

This man knew who he was and what he was capable of.

So Bucky just looked at him, the unsaid question of _why are you helping me?_ hanging in the air.

"Steve was looking everywhere for you, yannow." The other man yawned, showing a gap in his teeth, and scrubbed his face with one hand. "Wouldn't give up short of death. That's why we're all here, up eating soup at a godforsaken time in the morning. All for you."

Bucky turned his head slightly and didn't answer.

"Guess I should be happy he got you back. I just want a nap. Probably easier to be happy in the morning." He threw an arm over the back of his chair and slumped on it. "But fact is, Steve is my friend. I'd go to hell and back for 'im. Probably how he feels about you too."

Bucky just looked at him.

The other man smiled again. "Chatty, aren't you?"

"Who are you?" rasped Bucky.

His expression finally turned serious. "My name's Sam."

 _Everyone around here seems so sure of their names..._ Bucky thought to himself.

 _Why aren't I?_

That's when he heard footsteps come back through the doorway, and when he looked up, there was Steve.

* * *

Steve hoped his eyes weren't as red as they felt as he took a seat beside Bucky. He gave his friend a valiant attempt at a smile. Bucky looked at him for a long second.

"Feeling better?" asked Sam from across the table.

Steve exhaled heavily. "Yeah."

Bucky dipped his spoon into the bowl in front of him and took a few mouthfuls of soup.

"Hah. I knew it." Sam smirked in victory, but there was something gentle and kind about it.

Before Steve could ask what that meant, Bucky wiped his scraggly beard with the back of his sleeve and turned to Steve. "You were crying," he said quietly.

It was all Steve could do not to show his disappointment. "Is it that obvious?"

Bucky looked unsure for a moment, but then he reached up with his flesh hand and gently, carefully touched under Steve's eyes.

Steve sat very still and watched him. His ears rang a little with how silent the room had become.

Bucky moved his hand to the side of Steve's face and held on loosely, just barely propping up his jaw.

Steve shut his eyes and swallowed heavily. He couldn't have described if he tried how good it felt to have Bucky reaching out and trying to comfort him.

Bucky shifted that hand down to Steve's shoulder and started to rub in mechanical circles. Two little creases had shown up between his eyebrows, he was frowning so hard. But then he reached down with his free hand, shifted his chair closer to Steve, and threw his arm fully over Steve's shoulders.

"I used to do _this_ ," he whispered, his head right by Steve's ear.

And _that_ was just too much.

If Steve had tried to count the times he'd wished to feel Bucky's arm on his shoulders after he'd crashed the plane, he would have run out of numbers. He put his face in his hands and just let the tears come back.

Finally, _finally_ he had his brother again.

Bucky froze a little, watching Steve's face with a mix of fear and worry, but he seemed to regain his resolve and moved a little closer.

"My god," whispered Sam. If Steve didn't have the serum, he wouldn't have heard it.

"Remind you of somebody?" asked Clint, elsewhere in the room.

"Maybe a little," answered Natasha, and she sounded like she was smiling.

It took him a few moments, but Steve finally calmed down enough to smile at Bucky. "Thank you," he said, and his voice was mercifully steady. "I missed this."

Bucky took his arm off Steve's shoulders and stared at the table. "I hurt you," he said, frowning. "This is because of me."

Steve sighed. "It's okay." He reached across Bucky and set his hand on top of Bucky's metal one. "I knew this was going to be rough. It's not all bad."

Bucky stared at their overlapping hands for a second. He looked unsure.

"I can take it." Steve mustered the best smile he possibly could. "It's worth it just to have you here."

Bucky was thinking hard. He bit his lip and asked slowly, "Is this...what...the woman—Carter—talked about?"

Steve had to take a deep breath in at that, but he managed to control himself otherwise. "What did Peggy call it, Buck?" he asked quietly.

Bucky was staring harder than ever at their hands. "Love."

Steve's heart broke into a million pieces and healed up all at once. He grinned like it would break his face. "Y-yeah," he managed. "Yeah, it is."

* * *

It was almost morning. There were still a few hours to go until dawn, but Steve could hear the birds already chirping outside.

He felt like he was going to collapse. This was the first time in months that he hadn't gotten a full night's rest. That and the emotions of the day were a potent combination to bring him down.

Clint had already punched out and gone to sleep. He'd had a long night. But for Steve, there was one last issue that had to be resolved.

"All of the HYDRA bases we found destroyed around D.C.," Steve began. "That was you?"

Bucky was sitting on the couch in the den, and he looked up with surprise and an edge of terror in his eyes. Then he nodded.

Sam whistled. "Remind me never to cross threads with you again."

Bucky just gave him a steady look.

"There will be more," said Natasha. "There always are, with people like this. We're lucky to have found you," she said to Bucky, "but the information on the scepter is still out there, and so is the threat to us and ours. You can't stop now."

"You want me to neutralize them?" asked Bucky.

The other three people in the room went silent.

"Not _now_ ," Steve finally answered, biting down the terror at the idea of his best friend facing the people who'd put him in a state like this. "Not until we all get some sleep and I know that you won't—that you're going to be okay."

Bucky stared at the floor and nodded.

"But after that..." Steve turned to Natasha, who raised an eyebrow at him. She didn't smile, but he could read approval in her expression.

Steve bent down and took Bucky's hand. "After that, I'd be honored to fight beside you again. If that's what you want."

Bucky's face was expressionless, but the look he gave Steve was level and calm.

He might not have known how to make his own choices yet, but that was enough for now.

"They hurt me." Bucky's voice rasped, and his eyes darted around in fear. "I don't really remember all of it, but I know..." He bit his lip.

"They took away everything that was you," Steve said, his heart breaking. "They put a killer in your place instead."

Bucky looked horror-stricken. "How?" He stared right at Steve, begging for an answer. "What did they do to me?"

Steve opened his mouth, shook his head, and shut it again.

It all hurt too much.

"We don't know the details of that," Sam spoke up gently. "It's as fuzzy to us as it is to you."

Sam turned to Steve and raised an eyebrow, as if to check for affirmation, and then he pulled something off the top of a nearby shelf. "All we know is in this folder."

Steve sat up a little, recognizing the Russian on the cover. When he stole a look at Bucky, he saw that Bucky was staring at it like the thing was his lifeblood.

Sam shrugged. "Can't read half of it, because it's in Russian. Maybe you'll have better luck."

Bucky was looking at Steve, a timid, hopeful look on his face.

Steve heaved a sigh. "There's some pretty heavy stuff in there, Buck. But if you want to know, you deserve to know. It's yours."

Sam nodded and set the folder on the coffee table in front of Bucky. Bucky didn't pick it up; he just stared at it.

Steve wondered what kind of a turned-around world they lived in that someone would want to know how he was tortured.

* * *

"Nat. Can I ask a favor?"

It was just an hour before dawn, and everyone had finally settled down enough to sleep. Natasha turned around to see Steve behind her standing in the hall.

He looked nervous.

"You can definitely ask," she said lightly. "Doesn't mean I'll do it."

Steve didn't laugh.

She stepped forward and looked up at him. "What is it?"

He sighed. "When we first found Bucky—and a few times afterward—he's speaking Russian. I don't know why."

Natasha nodded. She set her lips in a line. "Soviet handlers. It was probably the language of his commands."

Steve looked like his heart had broken for the nth time tonight.

"Hey." She made him raise his chin a little bit. "What's the favor?"

His eyes got a bit of their brightness back.

* * *

"Bucky."

He was sitting on the couch in Steve's living room, but he looked up as soon as he heard the familiar voice.

Steve was back. The expression on his face looked like _fear_ , but also like _love_.

" _Ya..._ " Steve looked back at the woman who stood in the doorway.

She nodded. She was watching Bucky. He couldn't read her expression.

For his part, Bucky had sat up ramrod straight at the sound of that language. Something cold and fretful was boiling in his stomach.

Steve took a deep breath, and his voice shook as he said, " _Ya lyublyu tebya._ "

Bucky felt his eyes go _wide._

"I know this isn't going to be easy," Steve ran on. "I know this is hard, and you've been through so much, and I can't fix all of it. But I want you to know that I care. I'll be here. If I can just be your friend, that's all I ask for. From now on, it's going to be different. You're safe."

He took another deep breath and turned to the woman. "How do you say 'I will never hurt you'?"

" _Ya nikogda ne prichinyu tebe vreda_ ," she said softly.

Bucky recognized her expression now.

It was how Carter had looked at him.

Steve's smile looked a little bit broken. "Y-yeah, I can't," he said. "I'm not that good."

Bucky couldn't take his eyes off of Steve. He knew those words. He knew what they meant. He'd heard them before—maybe separately, possibly strung together. But never directed at him. Never _for_ him.

 _Ya lyublyu tebya._

 _I love you._

" _Ya lyublyu tebya._ I l-love you." He could hear his own voice shaking.

Steve smiled like it would break his face and put his arms around him and held him. Bucky grabbed two fists full of the fabric of Steve's shirt and leaned into it.

Nothing in the world felt better than when Steve held him.

The woman—Natasha?—looked on and smiled.

Steve laughed a little into his shoulder, but it sounded choked and wrong. "We were stupid not to say it sooner, huh, Buck?" he asked.

Bucky was thinking as hard as he could. Steve had said that he could choose his own mission. The thought still terrified him to no end ( _what if I choose wrong what if there's punishment what if I fail what if what if_ ), but at least he knew this.

His old handlers were dead.

He was with Steve now.

Steve said he was free. He could choose.

His mission was his own.

"Protect you," Bucky said shakily, and was almost surprised by the sound of his own voice. "I'm going to protect you."

Steve pulled away from him and stared for a moment, but then he smiled the biggest Bucky had ever seen it.

It felt like something familiar.

"Okay, Buck," he said. "If that's what you want."

Bucky looked up at Steve.

 _Mission: Eliminate Captain America: Nullified. Cancelled._

 _Mission: Protect Steve Rogers._

Bucky smiled.

 _tbc..._

* * *

 **A/N: Whoo! Buck making his own choices!**

 **Reviews are names.**


	11. Chapter 10

**A/N: Guess who had, like, a LOT of work right after getting home? Oh well. I'm back! Much thanks to Mish for the help last Sunday! On to the end.**

 **The last few lines of this chapter should explain the name of the Remembered Arc.**

* * *

 **Chapter Ten**

Steve woke up as soon as he heard the scream.

He started upright and looked wildly around the den in surprise. He couldn't quite tell what time it was, but with all of the lights off in the house, it still looked dark.

Nothing seemed to have been disturbed. Sam was asleep, curled up in a blanket, on the couch nearby. Steve knew he'd given the guest bedroom to Natasha after wishing her good night.

* * *

"You told me that even when you had nothing, you had him," she'd said, before she retired for the night. "Is that true?"

"It was just him and me after my ma died," Steve had answered. "Nobody else wanted to be around the…'drag on society'," he added bitterly.

Natasha hadn't said anything.

"I don't mean to put you all down for this," Steve had added. "I owe you so much—not just for your help with the search." He paused. "But I owe everything to Bucky."

Natasha had smiled. "No hard feelings. I just hope you're right about him."

* * *

All seemed quiet from where she was sleeping. And Bucky...

There it was again. A long, rasping scream that turned his blood to ice.

Steve leaped out of the recliner and tore towards his room.

Bucky sounded like he was being _tortured._

The second Steve threw the door open, the screaming stopped, and the figure engulfed in the bed stared at him wildly for a second before he shrank into the covers.

"Bucky?" Steve asked, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. "Are you okay?"

It was a stupid question. Bucky was clutching his head with both hands and breathing like a racehorse, and he said nothing.

Steve could feel something splitting in his chest. "Nightmare, huh?" He stepped forward slowly, making sure Bucky could hear his footsteps on the floor, and sat on the edge of the mattress. "I'm sorry, pal."

Bucky was quiet. He was lying on his side, turned away from Steve. "See 'em every night," he rasped.

Steve felt his heart clunk into his stomach. "You do?"

The silence was answer enough. "It always hurts. But I can't—" He sounded upset. "I don't know what is real."

"Hey, hey." Steve set his hand on Bucky's side and started to stroke back and forth gently. "Start thinking of something else. It'll help."

Bucky's exhale was a loud puff. "Could wipe it all...start over..."

Steve's blood turned to ice.

"Is that really what you want?" he asked, and he couldn't quite keep the frost at HYDRA out of his voice. "To lose it all? To be a slave again?"

Bucky was quiet.

Steve sighed like he wanted all the air out of his lungs and flopped onto the bed beside Bucky.

It felt right, this old childhood ritual. It felt wrong at the same time, because Bucky wasn't himself. But Steve held on to what he could.

"No," Bucky finally answered.

It took Steve a second to remember what he was talking about.

"I just...I..." He gripped his head and bent over as if scared or in pain.

Steve propped himself up on one elbow and put his arm over Bucky. "It's okay, pal," he whispered. "Just tell me. I'm not gonna hurt ya. No one will, anymore."

Bucky was silent for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice came out thin and choked. "I don't want to hurt anymore. I want _me_. I just want _me_."

And at that, Steve felt like he'd break too.

"Then you'll get it, pal." He pulled himself closer, and buried his face in Bucky's shoulder blades to hold back the tears. "If that's what you want, then I'll help you get yourself back. I promise."

Both of them were quiet for a few seconds. Steve took some deep breaths to compose himself.

"Is this okay?" he finally asked. They were both lying on their sides, his chest up against Bucky's back and his arm slung over his waist. "How I'm holding you?"

It was exactly how Bucky had held him when Steve was running a fever on freezing winter nights in Brooklyn...but this wasn't then.

"Yes," Bucky said without hesitation.

 _Oh._ Steve blinked. _All right then._

"You shouldn't have to do this." Bucky's voice was so quiet it rasped.

"Why not?" Steve asked.

"I'm...broken. Damaged." His shoulders quivered, and he sounded upset. "You shouldn't have to…"

Steve sighed and set his forehead against Bucky's back. "Listen. I meant it when I said I was with you 'til the end of the line. If you'll have me, I _want_ to help you."

Bucky was quiet. Steve wondered what he was thinking.

"It's not your fault that the train looks different than we thought." Steve was drifting back off to sleep. The initial scare had drained his energy, and now he just wanted to go back to bed.

"How long can I stay here?" asked Bucky.

"As long as you want," Steve answered around a yawn. He tried to blink the sleep out of his eyes. "Personally, I hope you stay a long time."

Bucky said nothing.

"I can go back out to the den, now, if you want," Steve said. Better offer now before he fell asleep.

"No." Bucky's voice was so serious that it almost had conviction.

Steve gave a little huffing laugh, even as something warm bloomed in his chest. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

"All right, then. Whatever you want." He shut his eyes and sunk against his best friend's back.

* * *

Bucky was wide awake, thinking very hard.

Steve was falling asleep on him. Steve—who he'd shot multiple times and let fall off a flying machine into a river. Who seemed agonized over everything Bucky said and did. Who was risking everything he had to give him safety and a home.

Steve was sleeping. Completely at ease. Bucky had even made him laugh.

(He'd forgotten what a laugh was, for a moment, but when he recalled that it was a sign of humor and pleasure his face had flushed up like the fever and he didn't know why.)

Steve was different. Steve was so very different from everything Bucky ever knew. This was the first time Bucky could remember someone looking at him, not with fear and revulsion, but with "love" and the other word Bucky was forgetting that meant the opposite of cruelty.

Steve had offered him safety. And he'd given Bucky the chance to stay.

There was a part of him that couldn't accept it. That part screamed _YOU'RE TOO BROKEN_ and _YOU'VE DONE TOO MUCH WRONG_ and _YOU'RE WORTHLESS HOW COULD YOU DESERVE IT_ and _IT'S A LIE—HE'LL HURT YOU—HE'LL BE JUST LIKE THEM_

And then he thought of Steve's little laugh and all of that seemed small and wrong.

His whole life had been dismembering before—taking apart, never to put back together again. _He'd_ been dismembered. His memories had been dismembered and destroyed. He'd dismembered families and lives and systems and governments, all under Their hand.

Maybe now, now, he finally had the chance to do the opposite.

Remember.

And he'd do it here.

Because for the first time he could remember, he had a home.

"I'll stay," Bucky heard himself saying, and he shut his eyes and tried to sleep.

He was too tired to realize that the gentle, fleeting pressure on the back of his head was a kiss.

 ** _the end_**

* * *

 _Don't wanna call you in the nighttime  
_ _Don't wanna give you all my pieces  
Don't wanna hand you all my trouble  
Don't wanna give you all my demons  
You'll have to watch me struggle  
From several rooms away...  
But tonight  
I need you to stay_

* * *

 **A/N:** **Reviews are happy endings! Stay tuned for the epilogue.**


	12. Epilogue: The Glare

**Epilogue: The Glare**

Sam must not have gotten as good a sleep on that couch as Steve had thought.

Either that, or he was just a little stir-crazy from recent events—and for that, Steve couldn't really blame him—or maybe Sam was just one of those people who was always ornery in the mornings.

Either way, he was giving Steve heck over their breakfast (which was shockingly close to noon for Steve's sensibilities) while Bucky and Natasha sat at the kitchen table, one watching warily and the other sipping her tea.

"And I don't want you drinking orange juice out of the carton, either," Steve found himself insisting, almost slipping into his 'I'm Captain America and I'm in charge' voice.

Sam was having none of it as they argued in front of the stove. "A man has _rights_. This is America. And I got my right to _waffles_!"

"We're having ham and eggs," Steve retorted.

"You can have your super-soldier protein shakes all you want, but some of us want a little sugar in the morning." Sam pushed Steve's arm roughly, but it hardly budged him.

It took just a second for Steve to realize that the low, angry growling noise was coming from Bucky.

He turned around.

Bucky was glaring at Sam, who lifted his hands in surrender and backed away, muttering, "Whoa."

Steve tried to spread his hands in a sign of peace, which was hard to do with a nylon turner in one hand. "It's okay," he told Bucky. "He's not gonna hurt me."

Bucky's arresting gaze shifted to Steve, and then to Sam, his eyebrows still knit.

Sam waved at himself and then at Steve. "Do I _look_ like I could move all this?" he asked.

Steve rolled his eyes a little and turned back to the eggs in the frying pan.

Bucky didn't growl again, so he figured that was a victory.

Sam leaned towards Steve's ear and hissed in a mock whisper, "Steve, your buddy is giving me the 'I'm about to gut you' glare."

"He's not gonna gut you, Sam," Steve answered, completely focused on working the turner under one of the eggs.

"How do _you_ know?" asked Sam.

Steve flipped the egg and looked over his shoulder at Bucky. Bucky caught his eye and bashfully stared at the table, trying to hide his face in his hair.

Steve smiled and turned back to the frying pan.

"Okay, and now you have telepathy?" Sam grumbled. "Super-soldiers, I tell you..."

Steve crossed the kitchen and set a plate of eggs and ham in front of Bucky. "Sam is funny," he said to his pal with a gentle smile. "He messes around and tries to give me a hard time, but that's because he likes me."

The corners of Bucky's mouth twitched up for a moment in a shy almost-smile. "I know," he whispered. "I used to talk like him."

Steve grinned. "Yeah, you did, all the time. Are you jealous?"

Bucky turned away, a soft look in his eyes and a little color coming back to his cheeks.

"And now you're talking like I ain't even here," Sam complained. "Where's my respect, man?"

Bucky glared at him.

Steve grinned at Bucky and then at Sam. "I'm beginning to sense a pattern here," he said.

Sam crossed his arms. "All right, fine. I know when I'm not wanted. I'm gonna go eat on the couch, and you two grandfathers are gonna be missing out." And with that, he snatched up his breakfast and trooped off to the den.

Bucky watched him go, a question written on the lines between his eyebrows.

"Grandfathers," Steve echoed with a smirk. "Because we're both almost a hundred years old."

Bucky looked up at him, the calm in his eyes an unusual but welcome visitor, and then he jumped at Sam's voice.

"And I'll even drink my orange juice out of the _glass_ , thank you very much!" Sam shouted from the den.

"Can I get you a _bendy straw_ , youngster?" Steve called back.

"Watch your smart mouth, Rogers!" snapped Sam.

Steve grinned at Bucky.

Bucky offered a shaky smile in return.

Natasha shook her head and muttered into her tea, " _Amerikantsy. Nu blin_ _._ "

 **THE END**

 **(is only the beginning)**

* * *

 **A/N: Okay, I'm done for real now. Reviews are waffles!**


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